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  “Nine more times?” Ben felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t think I could do that once.”

  “If you simply can’t pull yourself up by your arms,” Crichton said, narrating as he climbed, “you can brace one foot against the connecting bolts on the wires. But that’s strictly for wimps and over-seventies.”

  Ben grimaced. “Seventy months, I hope he means.”

  Christina smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m never gonna make it up that thing.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. By the way, Ben, have I mentioned recently what a brilliant idea this new job was?”

  “Cheap, Christina. Very cheap.”

  At the top of the giant’s ladder, Crichton pulled himself upright between two taut wires and sidestepped to a nearby tree. Crawling sideways down the tree, he lowered himself onto a small wooden ledge. “From here you can attack the Burma bridge. Three ropes stretched between two trees—the simplest bridge known to man—yet perfectly effective. If you have the strength to make the crossing. Remember, push out with your arms against the two higher ropes, and step toe-to-toe on the low rope.”

  “I’ll remember,” Ben murmured. “I’ll remember.”

  “After you cross the Burma bridge, the next step is to walk across a telephone pole connecting one tree to another. A simple balancing trick. If it were on the ground, it would be easy. Sixty feet in the air, less so.” He smiled at his own witticism.

  “The final step is the easiest of all—two wires, one high, one low. Hold one with your hands, keep your feet on the other. Sidestep from tree to tree. If you don’t lose your balance, you’ll do fine. If you do lose your balance, well, we’ll get to see if your captain is paying attention.”

  “What a humorist. Regular Mark Twain.” Ben looked grimly at Christina. “I think I’m sick already.”

  “Finally,” Crichton announced, “you descend on the zip line, a pulley and wire slingshot, if you will. Detach your carabiner from the support wire and attach it to me zip line. Crawl onto the seat and push. You’ll be on the ground in a heartbeat. Better than a roller coaster.”

  “Assuming your heart doesn’t stop,” Ben said.

  Christina jabbed him in the side.

  “All right, then. Pair off into teams of two and let’s begin your assault. I’ll take volunteers.”

  “Well, Ben,” Christina said, “wanna be my proactive partner?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m taking Rob.”

  “You like him better man me?”

  “No, but he’s a hell of a lot stronger, and that’s the principal quality I’m looking for in the person who’s going to be holding onto the end of my belay line.”

  Four hours later, most of me Apollo legal staff had confronted me High Course. Christina had finished in a fearless forty minutes, putting her in third place for speed, behind Rob and Chuck. Some were graceful; some were graceless. Some had struggled, strained, wobbled, and weaved. But all of them had finished.

  Except Ben. He hadn’t even started.

  “C’mon Kincaid,” Crichton growled. He hunched over Ben’s shoulder and whispered insistently into his ear. “Look, kid, you know you’re my favorite, but I can’t go on making excuses for you. Candice is almost finished, and she’s the last one. You’re going to have to try to get through this thing.”

  “Couldn’t I just not—and say I did?”

  “No way, Kincaid. I can’t make exceptions. Especially not for my favorites. It wouldn’t look right.”

  “What if we build another high course, just like this one, only connected to the ground?”

  “I’m afraid not. C’mon—that legal assistant of yours finished in nothing flat.”

  “Christina can do a lot of things I can’t, including all things that take place sixty feet off the ground.”

  “Damn it, Kincaid, you’re being a pussy!”

  “Sticks and stones…”

  “There are no wimps on the Apollo legal team.”

  “Probably because they’ve all been killed off by the High Course.”

  “Look, Kincaid, I’m going up again. You can follow right behind me. I’ll be with you the whole time, just a few steps ahead. Okay?”

  Before Ben could reply, a bloodcurdling scream pierced through the air.

  Ben turned toward the sound. “Whaa—?”

  “It’s Candice,” someone yelled. The group ran en masse toward the point of descent from the High Course.

  By the time they arrived, Candice was unstrapping herself from the zip line.

  “What happened?” Ben asked. “We heard you scream.”

  “It was exhilarating,” Candice said. “Shooting down the zip line, I mean. The wind whipping through your hair, bracing your face.” She shimmied from head to toe. “What a turn-on.”

  “Probably the closest you’ve come to orgasm in months,” Herb commented, just loud enough that everyone could hear.

  “Probably closer than you’ve come in your entire life,” Candice retorted, “unless you count the nights you’ve spent alone.”

  Ben was content to stay and enjoy the repartee, but unfortunately Crichton’s hands clamped down on his shoulders. “It’s time, Kincaid.”

  “No last-minute reprieve from the governor?”

  Crichton shook his head no. Rob fell in behind them and they returned to the entry stump for the giant’s ladder.

  “Just keep your eyes on me, Kincaid. Don’t look down at the ground. Watch me.”

  “Got it.” Ben watched as Crichton leapt onto the first rung of the giant’s ladder, this time without even standing on the stump. Less than five minutes later, Crichton was standing between the two wires at the top.

  “Now it’s your turn, Kincaid.”

  “Swell.” Ben stood on the stump and closed his eyes. “Are you holding tight to that line, Rob?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Just checking.” Ben threw his arms back and jumped up as high as he could. Too high. His arms wrapped around the bottom rung, and a second after, his chin banged down on it, but hard.

  “Oww!”

  “Don’t let go,” Crichton shouted down. “Never turn back. Never lose ground.”

  Right. Twisting with all his strength, Ben brought himself right side up. Slowly, he stood upright on the narrow beam. To his dismay, he found it wasn’t solid footing at all. The entire ladder swayed back and forth in the wind.

  “Don’t stop,” Crichton shouted. “Don’t lose your momentum. And don’t look down.”

  Cut me some slack, Ben thought. I’m only six feet in the air. He opened his eyes and looked down.

  Big mistake. The bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach. Worse, he looked up at Crichton and saw how far he had yet to go. He felt himself dizzying. What a great time to be sick, he thought. When your entire office is watching and you’re dangling in the middle of the air.

  “I’m going to start on the Burma bridge,” Crichton yelled. “Keep going.”

  Thanks, I will. Ben threw his arms up…and missed the next rung entirely. He clutched the side wire desperately, swinging the entire ladder back and forth like a pendulum. He could feel the tug of the belay line at his back; Rob was pulling the rope super-taut, trying to keep him from falling. Thanks for the assist, pal.

  The hell with it. Let Crichton call him a wimp—he was cheating. Ben placed his foot on the connecting bolt on the wire closest to him and boosted himself up. From that point, he was able to grab the next rung.

  “Holy—!”

  What was that? Ben became aware of a great commotion on the ground; everyone was staring at the Burma bridge and pointing. Ben peered up into the sun. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he saw a silhouetted Crichton waving his arms, flailing in midair about forty feet above him and four or five feet to one side.

  Ben squinted. Crichton appeared to have lost his balance and slipped off the wooden ledge that led to the Burma bridge. Crichton tried to grab the tree, but it was out of his re
ach. Fortunately, this was the difference between belayers and tightrope walkers; his belay line held him tight. So what was everyone screaming about?

  Ben traced Crichton’s belay line from his carabiner through the wheel lock and back down toward—My God! That’s what everyone was screaming about. There was a split in Crichton’s belay line. The sun glinted off a ragged tear. It looked as if it would rip clean through at any moment. And when it did, Crichton would be severed from his belay captain and all means of support.

  Crichton had seen the tear, too. He was desperately trying to swing himself back to the tree, but making no progress. He was too far away. He was dangling in the air, helpless. And fully aware that he was about to plunge sixty feet to the hard earth.

  Ben saw the rope split even further. He knew that in a matter of seconds it would be too late; Crichton’s weight was tearing the line apart. If someone didn’t secure his line fast, Crichton was a dead man.

  Ben tensed his muscles, threw his arms back, and leaped off the giant’s ladder. He flew through open space, arms extended, and grabbed Crichton’s belay line just above the tear. A second later, the rope ripped in two. Once severed, the rope ricocheted upward like a rock from a slingshot. Ben held tight, and the rope rocketed him into the sky.

  Ben shot toward the apex of the belay pulley. The rope burned in his hands. It hurt like hell, but he held fast. Come on, Rob!

  Suddenly, he felt a wrenching jerk on his back. Rob had tightened Ben’s belay line to keep him from flying over the top, and since Ben was holding tight to Crichton’s line, that stopped Crichton’s descent before he splatted into the dirt.

  Ben gritted his teeth and clenched the rope tightly. The strain on his arms was incredible; Crichton felt as though he weighed a thousand pounds. Now that Ben had a moment to think about what he was doing, a rush of panic spread through his body. His pulse was out of control; he was dripping with sweat. He was dangling in the air, for God’s sake! With nothing solid under his feet whatsoever. Sixty feet off the—

  Ben slowly opened his eyes, one eye at a time. Rob was shouting at him, telling him to hold tight while he lowered them both to the ground. Thanks, Rob—as if I was considering just letting go. Ben only hoped he could delay being sick until his feet were planted on terra firma once again.

  Earthward, he saw Rob fighting with all his strength to hold onto the line. Chuck and Christina were clutching Rob’s feet, anchoring him to the ground. Ben’s eyes followed the line burning in his hands, through the wheel lock, then down to Crichton, who was hovering just above the ground.

  Another three feet and he would have been dead.

  PART TWO

  Pennies and Butterflies

  17

  THE MAN TOSSED HIS van keys on the dresser beside the room key. It was one of those modern hotel keys, a flat card with punched holes like Swiss cheese. All the best places used them now. He hated them; he could never make them work without cramming them into the door scanner twenty or thirty times. Why did the world have to change? Why were people always looking for something better, tossing away the old, embracing the new? Why couldn’t everything remain simple, tidy, constant?

  He saw the girl’s reflection in the mirror over the dresser. She was in the bathroom. The water in the tub was running, and she was sliding out of her skintight fluorescent green pants. It must be winter, he mused; the snake was shedding her skin.

  The girl pulled off her halter top and removed a blue butterfly clip from her hair. She saw him watching her. “What are you doing?”

  He smiled—a brilliant, friendly smile. “Watching you.”

  “Oh yeah?” She crossed her arms over her breasts in mock modesty. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re beautiful.” He walked slowly into the bathroom. His black boots clickety-clacked against the tile floor. “You’re making me hard.”

  “Hey now, don’t start getting all excited. You have to wait.”

  His smile faded, just a touch. “I’m not very good at waiting. I want what I want—now.”

  “Look, Romeo, you promised I could have a bath.”

  “And you shall,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You may bathe all night. You may bathe forever.”

  “There you go again.” Giggling, she dropped her underclothes and jumped into the steamy tub. “What are you, some kind of poet?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Wow. Way cool.” She stretched out in the tub. “I never had a poet before. Most of my Johns are suit-and-tie types. You know, bankers, accountants, architects, lawyers.”

  The man’s head jerked. “You’ve had…lawyers?”

  “Oh, man. Like you wouldn’t believe. What a nightmare.” She laid a hot washcloth across her forehead. “Believe me, everything people say about lawyers is true, only more so. But never mind—I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Have you…talked to anyone else about it?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason. It’s just that—sometimes it helps to talk about what troubles you.”

  “Forget it, Romeo. You aren’t paying me that much.”

  “How much would I…”

  “Would you forget it already? Look, why don’t you get in here with me?” She winked at him, fluttering her long false eyelashes. “It’s a big tub.”

  The man thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will. Let me get something first.” He walked out of the bathroom.

  While he was out, she took a bar of soap from the dish and began lathering herself. “So what is it you do, anyhow? I figure it must be important, whatever it is. That van you drive looks customized, and I bet it wouldn’t be cheap even without the extras. Then there’s that wad of cash you flash around, and what you offered to pay me for a couple of hours’ work—way over market value, I must admit. Not to mention the way you dress, the way you look. No, I figure you’ve got to be someone at the top, like maybe a car salesman or a politician. Something like that.”

  She heard him reenter the bathroom. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. “So what is it? What do you do—”

  Her sentence ended abruptly as his hands clutched her throat. He pulled the black garbage bag over her head, plunging her into darkness. He tied the silken cord around her neck, fastening the bag to her head and constricting her windpipe. She sputtered and gasped, desperately trying to catch her breath, finding none.

  She began to struggle. She flailed in the tub, splashing water onto the tile floor. She reached back and grabbed at his arms. Raising himself up, he pressed down on her shoulders, pushing her head, bag and all, down under the water. She tried to fight back, but it was impossible. She couldn’t get a grip on anything. She just kept slipping and sliding, down, down, down, beneath the water.

  He had exactly what he wanted, what he needed. She was powerless, totally subject to his control. He pulled the ends of the cord, drawing it even tighter around her throat, causing blood to trickle out. Sweet Jesus!—she made him feel so good! He pulled even tighter, savoring the sweet constriction in his groin.

  And then—it was over, in one final magnificent climax. He felt a sudden surge, then release. He dropped the silken cord; her body slid lifelessly into the water. The man fell back against the bathroom counter, utterly and deliriously drained.

  He picked up her butterfly clip. A dainty thing; it would make a lovely souvenir.

  After he had rested, after the afterglow faded and his strength returned, he began picking up the clothes she had carelessly thrown on the floor. He hated people who made a mess.

  18

  MIKE THREW HIS DIRTY overcoat onto one of Ben’s overstuffed office chairs. “Christ, Ben, you’re turning into a goddamn homicide magnet!”

  “Attempted homicide,” Ben corrected. “Crichton survived the attempt.”

  “Just barely.”

  “Barely means his heart is beating. Ergo, no homicide.”

  “Only because you were in the right place
at the right time and decided to play Superman off the giant’s ladder. By the way, I’m impressed. What’s next for you, bungee jumping?”

  Ben waved his bandaged hands in the air. The rope burns on his hands were deep and slow to heal. “I just did the first thing that occurred to me. I didn’t have time to think about it.”

  “Don’t soft soap me, Ben. I think it was a damn gutsy move for a guy who used to get woozy sitting in his high chair.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My ex. Your sister. So don’t bother denying it.”

  “Yeah, well, those high chairs are damn high when you’re only two feet tall.” He closed the thick evidence treatise he’d been reading to prepare for the discovery motion he was arguing that afternoon. “So how’s the murder investigation coming?”

  “Which one? The teenagers? Or Howard Hamel?”

  “Let’s start with the teenagers. I saw in the paper that the killer claimed another victim.”

  “Right. His fourth.” Mike slammed his fist into his hand. “Goddamn it, I’d like to catch that bastard. Four victims now, and we’re still virtually clueless.”

  “There must be some leads. Some pattern.”

  “Other than the obvious—all his victims are teenage girls—no. Or at least, none that we’ve detected.”

  “What about the mutilation?”

  “Repeated on this victim as well. No head, no hands.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “What’ve you got on the Hamel murder?”

  “What’ve I got? You’re the one who’s supposed to be cracking that case wide open. What’ve you got?”

  “Well, I think I flushed out the killer. From sixty feet in the air.”

  “Quite possible.” Mike paced agitatedly across Ben’s office. “The lab finished its microscopic analysis of Crichton’s belay line. No doubt about it—it was cut. We searched the area, as you know, and searched everyone on the site. We didn’t find anything. And unfortunately, you didn’t see who did it.”